Blood In The Mirror
by Loud-Bass-Woman
Summary: Please Daddy. I’ll be good, Daddy. I’ll be good. I promise. Just don’t makes me look in the mirror.’ Why Draco can’t feel and why Draco hates mirrors.


A/N: Yeah. It's me again. Something I cooked up when I was bored. Review, flame, whatever. Just give me something to let me know you've read it.  
  
WARNINGS: Mentions of slash, non-con, loopiness, and a heavy dose of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder).  
  
**Blood In The Mirror   
**  
My name is Draco. I am a Malfoy. I hate mirrors.  
  
I am obnoxious, spoilt, rude, snobby, revolting and insolent.  
  
But no one knows who I am. I mean, how can they know who I am when _I_ don't even know who I am?  
  
All I know is that I cannot touch.  
  
I cannot love.  
  
I cannot feel.  
  
Damn, I really need to wash my hands.  
  
I didn't feel anything that time when Father got drunk and watched me undress with hungry eyes and then his hands went-  
  
I don't want to think about that. It doesn't make me feel, but it happened so long ago that there's no point in remembering it.  
  
I didn't feel anything when Father made me use the Cruciatus curse on a house elf for the first time when I was nine, and although you're supposed to feel anger and hate when you say the words for the curse to work, I didn't feel anything and it still worked. I continually wiped my dirty hands on my robes after that. I can't remember why they were dirty, I just remember that they were, they were dirty and stained, and I couldn't get the dirt off.  
  
I didn't feel anything when Oliver Wood forced me to give him head all the way back in second year. I took a really long shower after that. I don't think the water was too hot, I mean, I know that steam filled up the whole of the Quidditch changing rooms, but I really didn't think it was that hot. But my skin was all red and raw when I came out of the shower.  
  
I didn't feel anything the first time I used Avada Kedavra on some Mudblood whore when I was thirteen. I merely submerged my head in the bath water for a few seconds after, just to wake myself up.  
  
I didn't feel anything when I raped some disgusting seven-year-old girl when I was fourteen. I spend ages washing the feel of her off me after, though.  
  
I didn't feel anything when I fucked Pansy Parkinson, my girlfriend, for the first time last year. I took a shower straight after. She was disgusting.  
  
I didn't feel anything when Gryffindor won the house Cup for the sixth year running. I washed all the dirt off my hands and face immediately after I found out.  
  
I didn't feel anything when Weasley smacked me across the face for insulting his – bloody hell, I really need to wash my hands – Mudblood girlfriend. I had to wash my face to get the feel of his queer little muggle- loving poorly fist off me.  
  
I didn't feel anything when I locked that little Mudblood bookworm in the broom cupboard without her wand and unleashed three bludgers inside there and heard her screaming and sobbing throughout the night. I washed my hands until they were raw the next day, though.  
  
I didn't feel anything when Harry Potter told me he loved me last night. I just went and washed my hands.  
  
I can't feel. I am a Malfoy.  
  
Malfoys don't feel.  
  
I don't feel. I don't want to feel. If you feel, you get hurt, and I don't want to-  
  
No. If I didn't want to get hurt, that would mean I would have to feel in order to be hurt, and I don't feel. I can't.  
  
The only time I felt something was when I was fifteen years old and I stumbled upon some ancient mirror with elaborate writing on it in some weird language in some forgotten room in the Malfoy Manor.  
  
And when I looked in it . . .  
  
I felt. For the first time in my whole goddamn life, I actually _felt_ something.  
  
It was horrible.  
  
So horrible, so disgusting, so revolting, that I vowed never to feel again.  
  
Never.  
  
Shit, I've gotta wash my face soon. And my hands. I washed them six hundred and twenty seven seconds ago. That's too long. Too damn long.  
  
Damn, I'm losing track.  
  
Where was I?  
  
Was I talking about the time that- I need to wash my hands- I was knocked off my broom by a Bludger? I almost died that day, and I think (I'm not sure, but I think) that all the Gryffindors were actually cheering when I fell down to the ground and almost cracked my skull wide open like I did to that dirtyhorriblefilthy little Mudblood –I have to wash my face- and I know that although Potter tells me he loves me (stupid boy), he doesn't really because I swear he was cheering with the rest of them when I almost died.  
  
I almost died on the night when I was nine, as well. When Father was drunk and he slammed me against the wall and he-  
  
No. No, that wasn't where I left off, was it?  
  
I was telling you about what I saw in the – godammit I need to get to a tap fast- mirror.  
  
What did I see?  
  
Well.  
  
. . .  
  
Myself.  
  
. . .  
  
What's that? What's that I hear? Is Daddy calling?  
  
Coming Daddy. I'm coming.  
  
Just wait one second, I have to wash the blood off my robes.  
  
Coming, Daddy, coming.  
  
One more second, I need to wash the blood off my hands.  
  
One minute, Daddy, I'm coming.  
  
Almost ready, I just want to wash the blood off my face.  
  
. . .  
  
I can't stand mirrors.  
  
End. 


End file.
